


Stone by stone

by Leapfroggie



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Cousin Incest, F/M, Post Season 7, references to rape and torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-02 08:05:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17260604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leapfroggie/pseuds/Leapfroggie
Summary: His intended wife has already been married twice, and her every contact with men has only brought her pain and scars so far.-Or, how Jon and Sansa's relationship might develop if they do get married.





	Stone by stone

**Author's Note:**

> \- I know Jon is not a bastard, I just feel letting Dany (and the rest of the world) know would be very dangerous for Jon, especially as he doesn't want the Iron Throne. So I'm going with the idea that Sansa would have seen the danger and convinced everyone (Bran mostly) to keep their mouths shut about his legitimacy.  
> \- In the same vein, I am of the school of thought that Dany will not survive Season 8, so what I just wrote is completely impossible in my eyes. Still, I wanted to write it.  
> \- Overall, I just wanted to actually take into account the fact that Sansa (in the show) is probably deeply traumatized by what Ramsay did to her, and that sexual intimacy might be very hard for her.

They’re married after the war, under pressure from the Northern lords and the dragon queen, who wants her bastard nephew to produce an heir for her. But Jon knows the heir will be a long time coming from the moment he sees Sansa flinch at the mere mention of it. As amenable as he himself could be to the notion of bedding his fair cousin, nothing is quite as evident as the fact that she is not. At first, he thinks it is because Sansa can not wrap her mind around the idea of sharing that sort of intimacy with someone she once considered her half-brother. She is quick to dispel the notion, though, when he offers to find a way out of the arrangement if it so disgusts her.

“We were never close the way you were with Arya, Jon,” she says softly. “Given time, it might be easy enough to forget you were ever supposed to be my half-brother.”

It is only when he sees her reaching over her shoulder to touch her back that he realizes where the problem lays. His intended wife has already been married twice, and her every contact with men has only brought her pain and scars so far.

“I will not force you into anything,” he says, taking her hand into his. “Be it a marriage, or in the bed.”

She smiles gratefully at him and squeezes his hand, much like she does in the Godswood a moon later, when she assents to his unspoken question and he steps closer to kiss her lightly, their first lip on lip contact. Some of the attendees woop and call bawdy japes, but Jon is already ridiculously satisfied that she did not flinch away from the touch.

Their bedding night ends with Sansa unbedded, and both of them fully clothed in the Lord’s chambers large bed. Jon is quite satisfied with it, though, because Sansa nestled against his chest when they laid down, and drew his arms around her waist while they talked until they both fell asleep. He had woken up with his nose fully buried in her hair and neck, and he found out he wouldn’t really mind waking up to this sweet smell and sensation for the rest of his life.

It is slow going, their relationship. Sansa is all kinds of lost, now, though she’s the strongest person Jon knows. She wants to touch him, that much is evident, so she does. She never takes off her clothes, but she does take Jon’s off. Her long pretty hands caress every inch of his skin: first on his upper body, all the hard planes and jagged bones, tracing the scars on his torso, then, after a while, his legs and arse and manhood. Jon guesses she relishes finally being the one in control in the bedroom, enjoys seeing him naked and writhing from her ministrations while he keeps his hands off her, quite some time before she voices it. Her smile gives it away.

After moons of this kind of play, she knows his body so well she can bring him close to his peak by simply whispering where she would touch him. Jon realizes how much he loves her when she uses the trick in front of the bannermen once, and he has to invent a lie no one believes about feeling unwell so he does not soil his breeches in front of them. He’s suspected the depth of his feelings before, but when he sees the merriment dance in her blue eyes at the predicament she put her in, and knows that no one else in the Great Hall can see through his wife’s careful mask, the need to kiss her gets so intense he cannot attend to any other thought. 

If anyone had ever told him Sansa Stark might ever whisper dirty talk into his ear under the guise of councelling him, he would have scoffed at them. Foolish boy, green as summer grass. His wife has taught him better now.

“Did you enjoy it?” Sansa asks later, as she joins him in his solar and takes him into her mouth as she had promised to do earlier.

“I just hope...” he groans, “I just hope no one realized.”

She hums around his cock and he spills right then.

Two moons later, Sansa wears a mere shift to their bed, and the candlelight throws shadows that allow him to see the outline of her breast and arse according to the way she moves. He is still not allowed to touch her, but the mere absence of the usual layers of clothing make the experience so much more consuming he sees stars and his feelings tumble down his lips as he thrusts in her hand. She does not echo them, but her laugh is oh so sweet when she kisses him tenderly. They fall asleep and wake up entwined, and Jon feels this might be the happiest he’s ever felt yet.

It is over a year and a half when the dragon queen visits his nephew and good-niece for the first time since their marriage. No heir has come forth to unite back the Seven Kingdoms, and Daenerys Targaryen has not the manners of the Queen in the North to circle around the question. They have gotten to the point where Jon can put his hands on Sansa’s shoulders and trail his fingers up and down her arms, as well as kisses down her neck. They have gotten to the point that Sansa can actually fall asleep with her back against his chest instead of always always facing him. They have gotten to the point where she does not startle when he comes from the shadows when she does not expect him to. They have not gotten to the point, though, that will allow for the production of heirs.

Sansa just smiles serenely at the dragon queen and says that “these things sometimes take time, your Grace.”

Jon almost snorts in his ale at the way Daenerys’s face drop at being so perfectly eluded. They all know she cannot reproach them for lack of trying: for all interested eyes, their King and Queen seem to share a perfectly agreeable marriage. They never retire to their own chambers, instead preferring to share the same bed every night. Of course, no one knows of what goes on in their bed, and it’s lucky they all assume some untruths.

He exchanges an amused glance with Sansa, and she raises her eyebrow at him. It’s even harder to keep his cool when he realizes she has not lied at all to his aunt: it does take time, though Daenerys speaks of womb quickening, and Sansa of learning trust again.

“Your aunt was jealous,” his wife comments once they have adjourned to their chambers, as she allows him to unlace her dress, a new activity he’s found to enjoy immensely. Helping her in and out of her clothes is a pleasure made all the more intense by the fact that he had never even thought to picture it, even when he started some pretty original fantasizing a few moons into their marriage. “She was disappointed we spend so much time together.”

“She was disappointed we are still without child,” he corrects her, letting his fingers skim over her neck, a contact she encourages by slightly angling her face down and raising her lifted hair higher.

“No,” she says, shaking her head. The gesture makes his fingers jump on her skin, and she shivers, which in turns makes him shiver. “She hoped to find our marriage unhappy, so she could have you for a few nights.”

He had never loved Daenerys Targaryen, despite what he might have let her believe when all that mattered was securing her dragons and her armies. When both her advisors and his pushed for his marriage with the newly crowned Queen in the North, he had been relieved, but he had never cared to enlighten his aunt about his true feelings. Sansa had agreed with the wisdom of it and had seen no use in antagonizing the volatile southern queen. She was in King’s Landing alone, they were in Winterfell together. Let her keep whatever illusions she cared to entertain to keep herself warm at night. 

“You know I wouldn’t have gone, even if we had been unhappy,” he says, kissing the spot behind her ear which she likes.

She tilts her head to allow him better access and hums when he starts threading his fingers through her hair softly to unbraid it.

“I know, husband,” she whispers with a brilliant smile. “Come. Let us get to bed.”

She does not touch him that night, but holds him tight against her, her leg pressed between his and her face buried in the crook of his neck as he caress her hair and murmurs sweet nothings into her ear. Daenerys would feel quite the fool, if she knew her visit only deterred Sansa from anything remotely sexual, but that Jon enjoyed those quiet moments just as much as the other ones.

Over the six moons following the southern queen’s departure, Jon gets to touch Sansa everywhere over her shift, and the time before she starts breathing too quick and sharp slowly gets longer, until one day, finally, he can bring her to peak massaging her cunt without her breaking into the early stages of panic. She is so overwhelmed at what she calls her victory she cries for a whole hour afterwards, Jon hovering worriedly, though she keeps asserting it is from joy and relief.

“I am not broken,” she laughs between snot and tears. “I will get over this, I will really get over this.”

He pats her back awkwardly, unsure of how he’s supposed to react, naked as his first day sitting next to his sobbing wife in the middle of their bed. She laughs at his expression and launches himself at him, knocking him backwards as she embraces him and peppering his face with kisses.

“Oh, I love you, my sweet, silly fool,” she cries. “You cannot know how much I love you.”

He does not know if he’s supposed to feel so happy when he’s also so bewildered, but he returns the embrace just as enthusiastically as she’s thrown herself into it. The feeling does not abate for the following moons, as he slowly learns Sansa’s body as well as she knows his own. He is full to bursting, though the Northern lords become more pressing, though even Davos starts dropping hints about the lack of heirs, though Daenerys’ letters always suggests it might not have been such a good idea, if it put him so far and didn’t bring forth the expected results.

It lasts until the day Sansa finally takes off her shift and remains standing in front of the bed, breathing slowly in and out with her eyes closed in the dim light. He waits for her until she’s ready, and, at long last, his wife sits carefully on the bed, offering her back to his perusal. The anger catches him fast and unaware, and he feels like he hasn’t since his brother’s daggers found his flesh in the dark. He lifts trembling fingers to her back and traces one of the longest scars adorning it, from the low part of one shoulder blade to the opposite hip bone, where the knife must have caught. He had never quite understood what the Boston Bastard might have done to her that had driven sweet Sansa to feed him to his own dogs, though he had guessed it was the same reason that had her carefully avoiding contact from anyone save her family, the same reason she always gelded rapists and sent them to the Wall instead of offering them a choice between the two.

“Do you find me really ugly?” she whispers without turning her head, without relaxing her stance.

His anger morphs to terrible sadness so quick he can’t hold back the tears, and he lays down his forehead against her back, holding her shoulders soft and cautious as he quietly let the wet roll down his cheeks.

“No,” he says in a strangled voice. “No, you are the strongest, most beautiful person I have ever seen, my dear, sweet wife.”

They stay like this for a long time, until he gathers her in his arms and lets her curve into a tight ball against him. It is their first time sharing skin on skin contact, and Jon would never have imagined it would make him feel so wretched.

For a while he is unable to let her out of his sight, setting Ghost to watch her whenever he is unable to do so himself. He knows it is irrationnal, the bastard being dead and burned for years, Sansa having killed him herself, but it takes Sansa’s anger for him to stop being so overbearing. Actually, it takes Sansa threatening to spend her nights in her own chambers rather than their shared one, just so she could have some time to herself unattended by either husband or direwolf. 

“I am dealing with it,” Sansa points out in her righteous anger. “You are not. If you cannot get over it, maybe we should stop sharing chambers for a while, so you do not bring this matter to our marital bed anymore.”

Arya woops at her sister for taking her stand, and smirks at Jon when he shakes his head in dismay at such an unintended consequence. He does stop hounding his wife following the chastening, though, and Sansa stops wearing nightclothes soon afterwards.

Three years into their marriage, Jon and Sansa consumate it after he makes her peak with his tongue then spills embarassingly fast as he enters her for the very first time. One year later, the first princess of the future reunited Seven Kingdoms blinks blue eyes at the world. A few siblings follow. It might have taken time, building all of this, Winterfell, their love, Sansa’s trust, stone by stone, but Sansa and Jon had been nothing if not dedicated to the cause.


End file.
